Falling from Grace: A Billionaire Romantic Suspense series (The Filth Monger Series Book 1)
Authors: Annabel Chant
Tags: #Billionaire Romantic Suspense series
Falling from Grace
The Filth Monger Series
Book 1
Annabel Chant
How far would
you
go to claim back your fantasies?
Grace Anderton is a WAG – one of the Wives And Girlfriends of a Premiership football team. In a long term relationship with up-and-coming mid-fielder, Leo Sparkes, she stays out of the limelight and has her own career, working for one of the CEOs of the UK’s wealthiest bank.
When Leo betrays her in the worst way possible, she loses everything – even the dark fantasies which have sustained her. In a tail spin, she sets out to get them back, whatever the cost.
Enter the Filth Monger. Heir to a fortune and criminally handsome, he can have any woman he wants...and he wants Grace.
But he has his own agenda.
Head of a secret organisation dealing in depravity, his life is going to shit around him. As he struggles with his own betrayals, he makes it his mission to save Grace from her one-woman ride to ruin – whether she wants him to or not, and by any means necessary. Even if it means throwing away the chance of having her for himself.
The Filth Monger Series is a set of five interlinked Romantic Suspense novels. Due to scenes of an adult nature and some (extremely) bad language, they are intended for a mature readership. In all they total approx. 250,000 words.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading this first book in the Filth Monger series.
For launch day news and offers, just join the
Fan Mongers
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@AnnabelChant
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Once again, thanks for reading – it’s so much appreciated.
Annabel x
WAG
Acronym for “Wives And Girlfriends”. The term is used specifically in relation to the partners of players in the Premiership – the highest league in British football – or of the England team.
The morning the story broke in the tabloids, I’d woken adrift in my favourite sexual fantasy.
Leo wasn’t around. He’d gone up North on the Saturday. He was a Premiership midfielder, and they were playing in Hull on the Sunday. I had a cold and was feeling lousy, so I’d stayed home, curled up on the sofa, watching crap TV and old movies. He’d promised to come back on the Sunday night, after the match, then texted later that evening to say he’d been held up.
Yeah, right,
I’d thought at the time.
Being held up, more like… by the bar.
I’d wished, afterwards, that was all it was.
I still felt washed out, but could’ve used some company. Instead, I spent a restless night alone in our flat, which was a large, airy apartment overlooking the Thames and wasn’t really such a bad place to spend the night.
I woke later than planned that Monday morning. I had work, and I’d slept through the alarm – a hangover from my cold. I knew I should go grab a shower, but I’d been dreaming heavily, and I was still half caught up in it. Even before I opened my eyes, I was aware of the pulsing tingle between my legs. It was my recurring dream, my fantasy, and all I wanted was to get back there. Forget work.
I strained my eyes against the early morning sun, still fighting to focus. I needed to get up, but the light was too bright, and my resolve, weak. The voile drapes let in too much light, and the sensuous aching of my clit gnawed relentlessly at my self-control. I needed a shower, all right – a cold one.
My head was still heavy with sleep and cold, and I flomped back down. I couldn’t help myself and, as I succumbed to the rumpled, linen sheets, my mind began to wander again.
Almost at once, I was in the back room of a bar. I was practically naked, except for high heels. My torn bra hung useless beneath my breasts and my ridiculously tiny panties were in ruins around my knees. The seedy room was crimson all over, stifling, and it stank of sex. Nasty, leering men stood all around me, faceless, nameless. Featureless. They always were. The details didn’t matter, didn’t even come into it. It was the scenario; the knowledge that I was going to be so utterly used and plundered, that did it for me.
After a brief glance at the bedside clock – I really couldn’t be late for work – I parted my thighs and slid my hand down between my legs. Still feeling lousy, I’d shoved my cosy PJs on, so I pushed and wriggled the bottoms down across my thighs and over my knees, so my fingers could get to work unhindered, rubbing and teasing my clit urgently. I didn’t have time to string it out.
Immediately, I was back there, on my knees before them, sucking on their lengths one after another, while they groped at my breasts and bent down to explore between my legs with rough, uncaring hands.
When they’d had enough, they dragged me to my feet and slapped my ass mercilessly. Then, they threw me back on a crusty padded bench, ripped the remaining tatters of lingerie from my eager body, and tore my legs open. I didn’t protest, just lay there, exposed and waiting, a willing victim for the whole raging, jeering crowd of indistinguishable any-guys.
I sighed and squirmed amongst the sheets, rubbing frantically as, one after another, they pushed into me, splitting me open. They were doing everything possible now, filling and using me in every conceivable way in a dizzying swirl of raw sweat and gratification.
I opened myself wider still, taking everything they had and willing them to push me further, spread me wider, make me dirtier. I was the filthiest slut in the universe and, as they destroyed my holes, stretching them past the point of no return, they made damn sure I knew it.
You dirty little whore…you filthy fuck toy…
I couldn’t take any more, didn’t need any more. It was so beautiful…so perfect. I was practically delirious and, when I came, I came gasping, roiling between the sheets, in waves of utter, slutty bliss.
As the sensations subsided, I came back into myself. I lay there, catching my breath and staring at the ceiling, wondering why I couldn’t just fantasise about regular sex. Everyone else seemed to. Why did I constantly crave degradation? What was wrong with me? Leo would’ve gone mad, if he’d known. Even the thought of him ever discovering it made me feel sick. As far as he was concerned, I was his Grace…his Princess…pure as an angel’s kiss.
But that wasn’t me. It was as if there were something missing, an ache deep down inside me, a desire for something primal…feral…but I didn’t know what. I put my hands to my face, wiping at it as if I could somehow wipe away my own disgust, then pushed back the covers. My PJ bottoms, still looped around my ankles, felt like an accusation.
I rushed through my morning ritual, cursing my lack of self-control. Why couldn’t I have waited? I knew I’d be used again that night, only this time on Leo’s terms – which meant flat on my back, with him grunting and jackhammering into me like an over-enthusiastic teenager. If I’d waited, I might even have come, for a change, before he rolled over and went to sleep, but there was little chance of that now.
I took the elevator down to the ground floor and hurried past the security desk, out into the rush hour streets of the capital. I pushed through the crowds, down into the Underground, forcing my way onto a train just as it pulled away from the platform. We were packed like sardines in a can, and the smell wasn’t much better.
I checked the time on my phone to take my mind off the passengers. I felt suffocated, holding my breath as they pressed against me. 8:35 am. I was late already.
When I came out at Monument, my phone vibrated in my hand. I glanced down as I waited to cross the road. It was a text.
Probably sent while I was on the train
.
Signal crap, as usual.
It was from Leo:
Love you, Princess. Mine forever, remember? Speak tonight.
The whole tone of the message took me aback and I stood there for a moment, not noticing the traffic had stopped. It wasn’t like Leo to send sweet nothings. I tried to remember the last time he’d told me he loved me, and drew a blank. But he’d sent that text. He must have missed me. I felt a sudden pang of guilt. I really had to put a lid on these fantasies. He was all I needed…nothing else mattered.
I checked it again, just to make sure. I could hardly believe I was reading it. It was so sweet, so…unexpected. The fact that he was up already was a shock in itself. Maybe he was turning over a new leaf. Maybe, even, he was planning something.
Like an engagement.
The
speak tonight
part sounded promising, anyway. We didn’t seem to speak all that much at all anymore. In fact, he hardly noticed me, except to find fault with me. I put that thought to the back of my mind and crossed the road quickly, as the traffic started to inch its way forward again.
I was still thinking about it when I entered the vaulted marble entrance hall of Ffyvells Corporate Banking Division.
Ffyvells was one of the largest banks of its kind. It had branches in all the major cities, and dealt exclusively with the wealthy elite. You knew you’d arrived when you were accepted for a Ffyvells account.
The European Group was on the ninth floor. By the time I got out the lift, I’d put Leo’s text aside, to revisit later in the day when I had time to revel in the sweet secret of it. For now, I had other things to concentrate on. I had the whole working day to get through and Max Flint, the group’s Chief Exec and my direct boss, was likely to pounce on me the minute I walked through the door.
Not in a good way, either. I should be so lucky. Max had all the women in the building drooling over him. He was an overpowering blend of half-Italian good looks, pale blue eyes, muscle and testosterone. The unholy offspring of a force ten hurricane and an aftershave commercial.
He was also a nightmare boss, almost obsessively driven. He’d hit CEO of the European Group two years ago, shortly before hitting his thirties, and his ambition was relentless. He had his eye on CEO of Corporate Banking, everyone knew it, and he expected his team to want it as much as he did. I had to be ready when he grabbed me.
As I entered, I saw Pascale Blanchard sorting through a sheaf of documents. She was absorbed, and hadn’t noticed me. She was one of the team PAs, chic in a matronly way, and usually up for a chat before the day kicked off in earnest.
Not today, though, seemingly.
‘Morning, Pascale.’ I unbuttoned my jacket. It was sweltering, and there was no air conditioning. Criminal negligence, in such a high pressure environment, but Max didn’t seem to care. He didn’t seem to sweat. Ever.
Pascale looked up from her papers, a ready smile on her lips, but as soon as she saw me her eyes widened and she looked panic-stricken. She gave me an anxious, tight smile. ‘M…morning,
ma chère
,’ she stammered, and crouched down, as if looking for something under her desk.
I left the last button unopened, and stood waiting, expecting her to come back up. It wasn’t like her to be so abrupt. I wondered if something had happened. Some of the team could be real dicks to the PAs. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had got the blame for something which, nine times out of ten, was the fault of someone higher up the food chain.
